Explore "Dreams from My Father" by Barack Obama on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I PULLED INTO THE AIRPORT parking lot at a quarter past three and ran to the terminal as fast as I could. Panting for breath, I spun around several times, my eyes scanning the crowds of Indians, Germans, Poles, Thais, and Czechs gathering their luggage.
Damn! I knew I should have left earlier. Maybe she had gotten worried and tried to call. Had I given her my office number? What if she'd missed her flight? What if she had walked right past me and I hadn't even known it?